


i met you last night (stars never shine that bright)

by knoxoursavior



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Office, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-22 16:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17063528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: The last person Yuuri expects to see at his new office is Victor Nikiforov.And yet here Victor is, just an arm’s reach away. Victor, who Yuuri has, for most of his life, seen only through a screen, through snapshots taped to his walls or framed and placed on his desk, is right here, and Yuuri is frozen in place at the sight of him.





	i met you last night (stars never shine that bright)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justrae2010](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justrae2010/gifts).



> i wrote this for [justrae2010](http://justrae2010.tumblr.com/) for the victuuri gift exchange!!! i opted to write an office au but it barely has any actual office work in it im so sorry /o\ i hope u still enjoy it though!!!!!!
> 
> also thank u to [obsessivelyintrigued](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivelyintrigued/pseuds/obsessivelyintrigued) for reading over this fic i lov and appreciate u

The last person Yuuri expects to see at his new office is Victor Nikiforov. 

And yet here Victor is, just an arm’s reach away. Victor, who Yuuri has, for most of his life, seen only through a screen, through snapshots taped to his walls or framed and placed on his desk, is right here, and Yuuri is frozen in place at the sight of him. 

He has more wrinkles now, more lines on his face that’s a little thinner than it was eight years ago. There’s a five o’clock shadow that frames his lips, dark circles under his eyes that Yuuri knows from experience are covered meticulously with concealer. But his hair still hangs over his eyes like it always has, and his eyes are still the same blue that Yuuri remembers staring back at him in his dreams for most of his transformative years.

Yuuri hasn’t heard anything about Victor since he retired so suddenly after his fifth straight gold at Worlds. He always assumed that Victor would coach or at the very least, choreograph. But there was nothing after that—no news, no credible rumors, no paparazzi photos.

No matter how badly Yuuri’s skating career ended, no matter how awful his last and only interaction with Victor was, Yuuri couldn’t just stop watching competitions, especially not when Victor was still skating. So when Victor disappeared, it was easier. Easier to cut his ties entirely, easier to move on.

But now—

Now everything that Yuuri has managed to keep locked away comes rushing back to him. Years of bruises and bandaged feet, of missed calls from his family and nights spent scrolling through photos of Vicchan, of peppered medals and always looking  _ up, up, up where Victor is _ —they crash into Yuuri like a tsunami he cannot run away from and Victor Nikiforov—grayed yet beautiful Victor Nikiforov—is at the epicenter of it.

“Mr. Katsuki? Are you alright?”

Victor’s voice is lower, rougher than Yuuri remembers; then again, Yuuri has only ever heard him in commercials and interviews, in videos of him taken by fans. And—

_ A commemorative photo? Sure _ —

“Mr. Katsuki?”

Yuuri startles, jumps in his seat so suddenly that even Victor jerks backwards in surprise.

“Sorry,” Yuuri chokes out, but the word is mangled, unrecognizable, so he swallows against the lump in his throat and tries again. “Sorry, sir. I’m just nervous.”

One moment, Victor’s eyebrows knit and the corner of his mouth tugs downwards, and the next, he’s already smiling at Yuuri, pleasant, affable, more of something Yuuri would expect from HR than the branch manager. It’s almost the exact same smile from the publicity photos and the press conferences, just toned down a little so it isn’t so wide, so bright.

“That’s alright,” Victor says, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re allowed to be nervous for your first day.”

“I’ll be better tomorrow, sir.”

Yuuri’s hands are shaking, his heart hammering in his chest, but he manages to keep his breaths even and his eyes on the point where Victor’s hair meets his cheek. 

“I’m sure you will,” Victor says, not quite kind, not quite patronizing. It’s hard to read him, hard to figure him out. It was easier, all those years ago; Victor loved skating enough that he became the best at it, and that’s all Yuuri ever needed to know.

Victor’s phone rings then. His gaze shifting away from Yuuri is as much a relief as it is a disappointment.

“Sorry, I have to take this. Please have my assistant show you to your desk.”

He flashes Yuuri one last smile,then he’s turning away, phone already pressed to his ear. Yuuri scrambles to leave the room, almost tripping on his way out, but he manages to close the door with a soft click, and Victor’s Russian fades to an unintelligible murmur.

Yuuri—

Yuuri doesn’t really know what this means, or what to do, or how to act. It still doesn’t feel quite real, still feels like Yuuri’s hallucinated the last twenty minutes. Maybe he did. He’s running on two hours of sleep after all, kept awake by thoughts of _what if_ _I’m late, what if my boss is an asshole, what if I embarrass myself_. Well. This must be real, because this is something he could never have come up with himself.

It didn’t seem like Victor recognized him, which is good, but it’s not a surprise. Victor didn’t recognize him all those years ago either.

And that’s okay. Yuuri doesn’t want to be recognized anyway, because the only thing Victor could recognize him for is a lackluster career and a GPF debut only notable in that it finally ended said lackluster career.

Yuuri doesn’t think Victor wants to be recognized either. He obviously doesn’t want people to know where he is, so Yuuri will pretend not to know that his boss is an Olympic gold medalist who also dominated both the GPF and Worlds for five years straight.  _ Right. _ Yuuri can understand that. He wouldn’t want to be the subject of one of those  _ where are they now  _ articles he’s guilty of clicking on either. 

Not that anyone cares about him, but he understands why Victor would be better off without it.

“Excuse me?”

Yuuri startles, realizes he’s still holding onto the door handle. He pulls back, steps away from the door only to bump into someone behind him.

It turns out to be Victor’s assistant, who brushes off Yuuri’s apologies and asks him instead to follow her to his desk, just like Victor said. And Yuuri does.

When he looks over his shoulder to get another glimpse of Victor, there’s only Victor’s gray hair peeking over the back of his chair. The disappointment that bursts in his chest is an old friend.

  
  
  


For the third day this week, Yuuri ends up working overtime. The janitor always comes in at around 7 PM and he’s the one who shakes Yuuri out of his stupor and tells him to leave. Yuuri is never the last person out though, because after that, the janitor knocks on Victor’s door next.

The first two days, Yuuri manages to get out before Victor does, but not today. Today, the elevator doors stop before they can close. Today, Yuuri looks up and sees bright blue eyes staring back at him.

“Sir,” Yuuri greets. He steps aside, gives Victor more space even though he hardly needs it when there’s only two of them in the elevator.

“Katsuki,” Victor greets. “Basement Level 2, please.”

Yuuri realizes he’s pressed to the corner of the elevator now, covering the keys with his body. He bites his lower lip, stops the apology before it can slide off the tip of his tongue and presses the key labeled B2 instead.

The air is hot inside the elevator, heavy with the silence that hangs between them for twelve floors straight. Then—

“You commute?”

Yuuri turns to Victor, who isn’t looking back, instead staring up at the number on the display counting down slowly but surely.

“What?” Yuuri says, eyes wide, heart pounding in his chest.

Finally, Victor looks down at him.

“You’re getting off at the lobby, so I assume you don’t have a car,” Victor says.

“Oh.” Yuuri looks away. He didn’t really know what he was expecting Victor to say. “No, I walk.”

“Even at night?” Victor asks. “How far do you live from here?”

Yuuri shrugs. “I only live five blocks away. Besides, I don’t really carry anything valuable with me, so it’s alright.”

Victor doesn’t answer for a beat, and then, “Katsuki, do you want me to give you a ride home?”

Yuuri startles, and his heart that’s only just settled into its usual pace jumpstarts once again at the thought of being alone in a car with Victor, or seeing Victor’s car at all. Or, even  _ worse _ , Victor seeing Yuuri’s apartment and the inevitable dilemma of being expected to invite his boss up for a coffee, and not the kind of  _ coffee _ that Phichit always encouraged him to offer the hockey players who’d volunteer to walk them home when Yuuri was still in Detroit.

“No!” Yuuri says, but his voice is too loud for such a small space, so he has to pause, to collect himself before he continues. “No, sir, I don’t need a ride home.”

But Victor’s face is twisted in concern that Yuuri can do nothing but drink up.

“Are you sure?” Victor asks. “Because it really is no trouble for me. Like you said, you live five blocks away. I can manage a detour for that.”

“I just—” Yuuri cuts himself off, hesitates, but Victor is waiting for an answer. “I feel like I shouldn’t say yes because you’re my boss.”

Victor raises his eyebrows.

“Why is that? A boss should take care of their employees.”

Yuuri doesn’t really want to get into his opinion on office politics right now, so he bites his tongue and keeps his answer short.

“Not to this extent, I think,” he says.

“Oh?” Victor’s lips curl upwards in a smile. “Interesting. Care to elaborate on that over a drink? I can drive you home afterwards.”

Yuuri narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know why Victor’s so adamant on taking him home, unless Victor really is the kind of boss who would do this for any of his employees.

“Are you ever going to give up?” Yuuri says, and  _ no _ , he didn’t mean to—

It was a niggling thought in the back of his head but—

“No,” Victor replies cheerfully.

If anyone in this world would say no to that question, Yuuri supposes it would be the guy who started the trend of a four-quad skate.

Well. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

“Alright, I guess,” he says. “But no drinks.”

“Maybe drinks?” Victor counters.

Yuuri sighs.

“Fine.”

  
  
  


When Yuuri wakes up, he feels like he’s in heaven, which really, is the first sign that something is wrong. The bed feels like a million feathers underneath him, the blanket a warm, fluffy weight above, and together, they surround Yuuri like a cocoon almost better than his mother’s hugs.

It’s dark when he opens his eyes, but the digital clock on the bedside table says that it’s already half past eight in the morning. At this hour in Yuuri’s apartment, he’d be hard-pressed to avoid waking up, considering how the sunlight seems to just pass through his curtains and go straight to his face every morning.

Wait—

Yuuri doesn’t have a digital alarm clock; he just has all of his twenty alarms on his phone that he’s sure is the reason why his neighbor hates him. He doesn’t have a bed as comfortable as this; he just has, like, a normal bed for normal, middle-class people. He definitely doesn’t have working blinds, and definitely not ones that stretch out from floor to ceiling.

Yuuri isn’t in his apartment, and there’s only one person who he could have come home with.

_ Shit. _

But no, it’s fine. Yuuri’s fine. He’s  _ fine. _

Except the last thing he remembers is knocking back his first mug of beer, and then everything else after that is hazy.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit.  _ Shit. _

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Yuuri startles and almost falls off the bed, saved only by the sheets tangled around his legs.

When Yuuri tries to reply, it’s only a mangled groan that comes out of his lips, so instead, he just takes a moment to check if he’s wearing anything underneath the sheets because possibly having a drunken one-night-stand with his figure skating idol would be bad enough, but having a drunken one-night-stand with his  _ boss _ would be  _ catastrophic _ .

But it’s alright, Yuuri’s still wearing most of his clothes from yesterday. His shirt is wrinkled and half-undone; his slacks are gone, but Yuuri’s been known to take his pants off first when he’s drunk so it isn’t really a surprise. There’s an 80-20 chance that Yuuri did not sleep with Victor last night. Probably.

“Good morning, Yuuri,” Victor says, and then there’s the whir of machinery and light starts to flood the room. “You should get up. I made breakfast.”

“I—” Yuuri squints his eyes at the window, because only half of it is uncovered right now but it’s really starting to look like they’re really high up. Like they’re  _ really _ high up. “Where am I?”

Victor turns around, his hands on his hips, the sun shining behind him like a halo. His face is washed in shadows, but even then, Yuuri can tell that he’s smiling all too widely for a Saturday morning.

“My apartment, of course!”

“I know that, but why—”

Yuuri groans. He misses the days when he was the morning person torturing everyone else in his life.

“You know what?” he says. “Never mind. What were you saying about breakfast?”

Somehow, Victor brightens up even more at that.

Once Yuuri finds his pants and freshens up in Victor’s bathroom, he finds out that breakfast is actually just buttered toast and orange juice.

“Sorry, I don’t have much,” Victor says. “I don’t really cook, so I don’t have a lot of food.”

“Is this what you eat for breakfast everyday?” Yuuri asks.

“Yeah. Sometimes I just buy pastries on the way to work.”

“And what about lunch? Dinner?”

“I get extra pastries for lunch, and then I eat out before I go home.”

Yuuri can’t help the way he looks over Victor’s body. He’s already noticed that Victor’s lost the definition he had back when he was still skating but now, Yuuri notices just how thin he is. It isn’t so bad that Yuuri has to be worried, but it’s enough that what comes out of Yuuri’s mouth next is this:

“If I make you breakfast and lunch, will you eat it?”

There isn’t even time for regret to creep in on him, because already, Victor is lighting up again. But it’s different this time. Somehow, this time, it feels like watching the sunrise, feels like seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Yuuri’s glad he has time before he needs to speak again because he’s just had his breath knocked out of him and he’s still reeling from it.

“Would you really?” Victor says.

Well, Yuuri would have to get up even earlier, but that’s alright. He’s guilty of slacking off when it comes to his diet too. This way, they can both start eating better again.

“Of course,” Yuuri says.

Victor leans forward. He props his chin up on his knuckles, his elbow on the table between them.

“And what about dinner, Yuuri? Will you do anything about that?”

Yuuri purses his lips, ignores the way his cheeks are burning up because Victor’s voice has gone low and it feels like his gaze is burning through Yuuri’s already unsteady defenses.

“I guess I can make you dinner too,” Yuuri says.

“Well,” Victor says, and he draws the word out, his tongue sliding across his lower lip at the tail-end of it, “maybe not. It’s only right that I repay you for making me breakfast and lunch by treating you to dinner.”

Yuuri tries very hard not to stare at Victor’s mouth. He succeeds. Mostly.

Well, he doesn’t think Victor catches him looking. Maybe.

“And what about your food on the weekends?” Yuuri asks.

Victor hums, and Yuuri has to swallow against the lump forming in his throat.

“Well, that all depends on whether or not you’re free, Yuuri.”

Victor might not be skating anymore, but apparently, he still has Yuuri’s heart in his grasp.

“I’ll see what I can do about it.”

  
  


Yuuri hasn’t made a bento in years, so the next Monday he wakes up three hours earlier than usual and gets to work. It’s worth it in the end, because he ends up with four bentos that meet even Mari’s high standards. Even better, perhaps, is Victor’s face when he opens up the breakfast bento. His eyes crinkle and his gums show a little bit and it helps Yuuri’s exhaustion dissipate into the slowly cooling air inside Victor’s office.

It gets easier. Soon enough, Yuuri learns to prep the night before so his three hours of cooking and plating are cut down into two. He keeps on waking up early though, goes down to the tiny gym in his apartment building and claims the treadmill for an hour. After that, he takes a shower, makes the bentos, gets dressed for work, and then he’s at the office thirty minutes before their call time so he can have breakfast with Victor.

It’s always Victor’s assistant who arrives first after them and when she does, Yuuri takes it as his cue to go back to his desk. He refuses to eat lunch with Victor too, no matter how many times Victor tries to convince him otherwise. Yuuri’s alright with this whole arrangement, but he knows how it might look and he isn’t interested in becoming office gossip fodder. 

On Friday nights, after Yuuri and Victor have dinner, they go to the grocery and shop for enough food and supplies to last through the weekend. It’s late by the time they get back to Victor’s, so after they prep their meals for the next two days, Yuuri ends up staying overnight more often than not, sleeping on Victor’s couch which, though not as comfortable as Victor’s bed, is probably still more comfortable than Yuuri’s own bed back in his apartment. 

It should feel weird, shouldn’t it? That Yuuri has settled into this routine with Victor. That he spent all those years practicing and skating and working his ass off in the hopes of finally meeting Victor and skating on the same ice as him, and yet here he is now, working for Victor and making his meals, discovering things about him that Yuuri could never have imagined. 

It should be weird that Yuuri now knows that Victor likes how Yuuri makes his eggs, that Victor buys the fruity toothpaste marketed for kids, that Victor takes his coffee with so many spoonfuls of sugar that Yuuri doesn’t even want to count exactly how many. That Yuuri now knows what Victor looks like with his bangs pulled back with a headband, with his reading glasses perched on his nose, with sauce dribbling down his chin because he’s stuffed his mouth too full. 

It should be weird, but it isn’t. It feels right, like he and Victor have clicked into place. It isn’t like what  Yuuri imagined being close to Victor would be all those years ago. He always thought of Victor as an idol, a competitor, another skater he respects more than any other. Back then, Yuuri would also think of the moment he’d be standing next to Victor on a podium. He’d think of Victor looking down at him and telling him he was amazing on the ice, of Victor asking him if he wanted to trade numbers and hang out with each other. Yuuri would think of that moment and he would hold onto that fantasy every time he fell, every time he missed the podium, every time he would wake up because his muscles ached and his feet throbbed and all he felt was  _ pain pain pain _ . 

_ This is better _ , Yuuri thinks.

As much as Yuuri loved skating—as much as he  _ still _ loves skating, really—the ice hurt Yuuri as much as it called to him and promised to nurture him, if not more. The ice was smooth against the blades under his feet, but it was rough against Yuuri’s skin, even rougher on the landscape of Yuuri’s mind. The ice left Yuuri lonely and in the end, the ice left him alone with bruises littering his body and dark, ugly thoughts rearing in his head. 

This is better, because both Yuuri and Victor have been stung by the ice, thrown aside by their first love. This is better, because this is a relationship built on solid ground and not ice just waiting to melt at any moment’s notice. This is better, because this is everything that Yuuri dreamt of and everything that it was not.

  
  


They’re in the dairy aisle, parked in front of the all-purpose cream shelf, when Victor asks him.

“Hey, Yuuri.”

Yuuri hums, turns over the can in his hand to check the expiration date and the nutritional information on the back. 

“Do you want to go to the museum tomorrow?” Victor says. “They have this new exhibit I want to see, and I thought maybe you’d like it too?”

Yuuri looks up at Victor, his nose scrunched in thought until, “Oh!”

Victor’s eyes widen. “What?”

“There’s this Japanese restaurant near the museum I’ve always wanted to try. Maybe we can have lunch there before we go to the museum?” Yuuri says. He’s read a lot of good reviews for it, but he hasn’t really had the time to try it out. Of all the restaurants that Victor has dragged him to, that one still hasn’t come up either. “We’ll have to stop by my apartment so I can get some clothes for tomorrow though.”

“That’s fine!” Victor says.

His smile still takes Yuuri’s breath away no matter how many times he sees it. 

  
  


Yuuri manages to convince Victor to try the katsudon. All he has to do is say that it’s his favorite food and suddenly, Victor is closing his menu and doubling Yuuri’s order instead.

But this is Yuuri’s first time at this restaurant, so he insists on taking the first bite just to see how their katsudon measures up against his mother’s. Of course, it isn’t as good as the katsudon Yuuri hasn’t had in over a decade, but it’s good enough and Victor seems to like it.

He loves it, actually. He loves it so much that Yuuri wonders why he’s never made it for Victor before.

“We should go here more often,” Victor says later, when their stomachs are full and they’re ready to go to the museum. Victor’s nose is a little red from the cold December air, but at least Yuuri got him to wear a beanie today to protect his ears. Victor always says that’s it’s going to make him bald, but it isn’t like Victor doesn’t already use dozens of hair care products to prevent hair loss anyway.

“We should,” Yuuri agrees. “But I should get to try Russian food next time.”

Victor scrunches his nose. “There aren’t any decent places to get Russian food here, though.”

Yuuri reaches out, tugs at Victor’s lapels until Victor bends down enough that Yuuri can fix the scarf around his neck. When he’s done, he pats Victor’s chest and lets him go.

“How long has it been since you last ate something from home?” Yuuri asks, his eyebrows knitting.

“I don’t know.” Victor sighs. “Maybe five years ago, just before I got transferred here. There’s this restaurant I always used to get my food from when I got sick of salads and bread.”

“Must have been often,” Yuuri says.

He turns away to hide his smile behind his hand but it’s too late.

Victor must see it because he narrows his eyes, says, “You think you’re being cute when you tease me about my skills in the kitchen, but you’re not.”

“I don’t think I’m being cute,” Yuuri counters, because he doesn’t. He  _ isn’t.  _ “You’re just bad at cooking. That’s not a bad thing.”

“How can being bad at cooking not be a bad thing?” Victor huffs under his breath, reaches out to pinch Yuuri’s cheeks just hard enough that Yuuri knows his skin will be red for a few seconds after Victor lets go. “Well, I guess it brought me to you, so maybe you’re right.”

Yuuri’s cheeks are warm, but it isn’t just because Victor pinched him.

“I’ll—” Yuuri pauses, licks his lips which have gone dry. “I could try and make your favorite Russian food, if you want.”

Victor’s lips part, his eyes widening. “Would you really, Yuuri?”

Yuuri has to force himself to nod, because otherwise, he’d be stuck staring.

“As long as I have a recipe,” he says.

He doesn’t expect Victor to hug him, doesn’t expect how close to his ear it would be when Victor tells him, “You’re too good to me, Yuuri. I’m lucky to have you.”

There’s nothing left for Yuuri to do but to hug back, to duck his head, to bury his face in the fabric of Victor’s wool coat and reply, “I’m luckier to have you.”

When Victor pulls away, he only does it halfway. His hands slide down from Yuuri’s back to his arms to his hands. Victor takes one of them in his own, squeezes, says, “We should go while the sky is clear.”

He holds Yuuri’s hand the entire way to the museum.

  
  


It’s snowing by the time they come out of the museum.

Victor’s still holding Yuuri’s hand, even though Yuuri has been sweating ever since Victor first took his hand. But Victor doesn’t seem to mind, and Yuuri doesn't pull his hand away because Victor is warm and bright and whenever he turns to smile at Yuuri, he always squeezes Yuuri’s hand as if to say,  _ look, Yuuri, look at me _ .

He does it again now—smiles, squeezes Yuuri’s hand—but Yuuri is already looking. He’s always looking at Victor, doesn’t want to miss a moment of  _ this _ because Victor is just as beautiful as he was all those years ago when Yuuri first saw him on TV. But he’s realer now  too, and now he’s within Yuuri’s reach.

“What did you think? Did you like it, Yuuri?” Victor asks, and Yuuri’s brain almost short-circuits because Victor reaches out to help him put his beanie back on. It’s hard to put a hat on with only one free hand, after all.

Victor’s touch shifts from Yuuri’s hair to his cheeks to his neck, and it lingers until Yuuri has to hold his breath because Victor’s finger is on his pulsepoint, privy to the quick  _ thump-thump-thumping  _ of Yuuri’s heart.

“Did you enjoy yourself, Yuuri?” Victor says, and Yuuri startles, realizes he hasn’t answered yet.

“I did,” Yuuri says. When he swallows, he feels Victor’s thumb against his throat, and it only makes his cheeks even warmer.

“Then you’re open to going out again next week?” Victor leans in closer to Yuuri, enough that Yuuri can feel Victor’s breath, warm against his skin. “Not to the museum, of course. Maybe we could go to the aquarium? Or we could watch a movie?”

“Sounds good to me,” Yuuri replies, but he’s distracted by Victor’s eyes, by that deep blue against pale skin, pale hair, against their pale surroundings washed out in greys and whites by the December weather.

“Which one?” Victor asks. 

Yuuri blinks. He can’t really remember what Victor said anymore, got stuck on the idea of going out again next week even though—

Even though there’s this dark and ugly feeling slowly digging its way into Yuuri’s heart. It whispers to him at the worst of times, tries to dilute the light that Victor ignites in Yuuri.  _ Not enough _ , it tells him.  _ It’s not enough _ .

It’s hard not to listen.

“All of it,” Yuuri says. “Anything you want.”

Victor laughs, and once again, he catches Yuuri off-guard when he closes the distance between them to press a kiss to Yuuri’s cheek.

Then, he pulls away, too quick, too  _ soon _ , soothing Yuuri’s beat-up heart with a hand on his cheek, holding him close so their faces are only centimeters away from each other.

“I suppose I’ll just have to surprise you next week,” Victor says.

“I’m sure I’ll have fun,” Yuuri says. As long as he’s with Victor, it doesn’t matter what they do. Yuuri will be happy enough that he can be close to Victor.

Yuuri bows his head, hides his face in Victor’s shoulder, and Victor’s hand on the back of his head, petting gently, is a welcome touch. 

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri doesn’t move, doesn’t look up because Victor is rubbing circles on his nape, because he probably wouldn’t be able to hide how flustered he is even if he tried. Instead, he hums, presses himself even closer to Victor. 

“Do you want to go back to my apartment?” Victor asks. “If you aren’t sick of me yet, that is.”

Yuuri looks up this time, his lips curled into a little smile when he says, “I could never be sick of you.”

“Even when I’m being annoying?” Victor says, but he’s already smiling back at Yuuri, already soft with an emotion Yuuri can’t name for the life of him.

Yuuri is a little breathless when he replies. 

“Even when you’re being annoying.”

  
  


Yuuri ends up sleeping at Victor’s for the second night in a row. And then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. 

Yuuri ends up sleeping at Victor’s until he has an entire week’s worth of laundry that he has to wash in Victor’s machine along with Victor’s clothes using Victor’s fabric detergent, until he doesn’t even remember the last time he was in his apartment for more than a few minutes, just to get a fresh change of clothes.

Yuuri ends up sleeping at Victor’s until he graduates from sleeping on Victor’s couch to sleeping on Victor’s queen bed, much too big for one person but just right for two.

  
  


Yuuri finds out that Victor is just as beautiful when he’s sleeping as he is when he’s awake.

He also finds out that Victor is a blanket-repellent octopus, because every morning, without fail, Yuuri ends up wrapped in both their shared blanket and Victor’s bare limbs. It’s endearing, somehow, even if Yuuri’s heart and bladder take a beating because of it.

  
  


Victor does surprise Yuuri the following Saturday, because he takes Yuuri skating.

Yuuri has always been aware of the pond in the park, has always known that it freezes over in the winter, that people go there to skate. He knows, because he’s had friends from work invite him to skate there, not knowing that Yuuri hasn’t skated in eight years because it hurts too much. Because the only routines he knows are his own, which he’d always rather forget even when he was still in the middle of a season back then, and Victor’s, which turned sour after Victor himself stopped competing. 

So it is a surprise when Victor drives them to the pond that Saturday, and it’s even more of a surprise when Victor asks him, “When was the last time you skated?”

Yuuri has to pause for a moment, because the way Victor phrased that—

“You know that I used to skate?”

Victor kills the engine, turns to Yuuri, his lips stretched into a thin little smile. “Not at first, but I figured it out after a while.”

“Are you—” Yuuri wets his lips, fidgets with the extra pair of gloves Victor lent him that morning. “Should I have mentioned something?”

Victor doesn’t answer for a moment, and then he looks away, says, “No, I think it’s good that you didn’t.”

Yuuri wants to ask. He wants to ask Victor how he figured it out, wants to ask if Victor figured it out because he finally looked Yuuri up or because he actually knew Yuuri back when he was still competing, because if it’s the latter, then maybe Yuuri wouldn’t have quit when he did. Maybe he could have reached the podium at Worlds, could have gotten a chance to prove himself to Victor. 

Well, maybe things wouldn’t have changed much anyway. Maybe they would have ended up in this exact same situation. Maybe it isn’t even worth thinking of  _ what if _ and  _ maybe I could have _ because what they have right now is better than anything Yuuri ever thought he’d have

“The last time I skated was when you won your last Worlds,” Yuuri says.

It’s been years, but he still remembers  _ Stammi Vicino _ . He can remember every spin, every jump, every little movement, can picture Victor’s GPF performance of it so clearly in his mind because that’s the version Yuuri watched over and over and over again when he was trying to crawl his way out of the dark corner of his mind that he wallowed in after the Sochi GPF.

_ Stammi Vicino _ has laced itself into Yuuri’s bones, has weaved itself into his muscles and his memories.

Yuuri swallows against the lump in his throat.

“And then you left,” he says.

“And then I left,” Victor echoes. He lets out a breath, and then, “We don’t have to skate today if you don’t want to.”

Yuuri has always wanted to skate, has always felt the urge to put on his old, worn skates and go to a rink and  _ skate _ . But he  _ never _ does. He never gives into the urge because he knows what happens when he does. He remembers the exhilaration, the excitement, the freedom of gliding on freshly smoothed ice, of letting himself go to the music playing through the entire rink or even just in his mind.

He also remembers the doubt, the relentless voice in the back of his mind that tells him,  _ you don’t belong on the ice, you never have, and you never will no matter how hard you try _ . Yuuri knows that it’s wrong, maybe, most likely—

Yuuri knows that it’s wrong. It’s just hard not to listen when his last concrete memory of the ice is its unwavering coldness even as he was on his knees, curled in on himself to hide his heaving breaths and his tear-stained face from everyone he’s left behind, everyone he’s disappointed.

But Victor was always Yuuri’s motivation, his end-goal, his finish line. The thought of skating with Victor was better than any medal, any praise Yuuri ever got as a skater.

So maybe now, maybe with Victor, maybe it’ll be alright.

“If it’s with you,” Yuuri says, reaches across the space between them to take Victor’s hand in his. “If it’s you, I won’t mind.”

Victor turns his hand over in Yuuri’s hold, laces their fingers together.

“Then let’s go.”

  
  


They hold each other’s hand as they step onto the ice, as they discover the ice together.

Neither of them pulls the other along, and neither of them tries to do anything but glide over the ice. Yuuri concentrates on the biting wind against his face, concentrates on Victor’s profile, on the line of Victor’s shoulders, relaxing slowly but surely until he’s back to how he’s meant to be on the ice.

Victor is beautiful when he skates. That’s always been true, and it’s still true even now with this Victor who hasn’t skated in as long as Yuuri hasn’t. He does to the ice what an artist does to a canvas; Victor’s body is a brush and his every move on the ice is a masterpiece Yuuri can’t help but admire.

Victor is beautiful when he skates, and when he turns to look at Yuuri with this doubtful, cautious little smile that breaks Yuuri’s heart as much as jumpstarts it—

Yuuri wants to skate. He wants to skate with Victor by his side. He wants to skate until their feet are aching and the tips of their fingers are just a little bit numb from staying out in the cold for too long.

So he does. He squeezes Victor’s hand in his. He skates. He leads Victor around the pond, traces the movements of  _ Stammi Vicino _ and thinks,  _ stay with me, Victor, stay close to me _ .

Yuuri sees the moment Victor realizes what he’s doing, sees the way Victor’s eyebrows knit, the way his mouth twists into a frown before his lips part and his eyes widen, filling up with tears. Yuuri follows when Victor slows to a stop, watches as Victor leans in closer and closer until his hand is on the back of Yuuri’s neck, until his nose bumps into Yuuri’s, until his lips are brushing against Yuuri’s own.

And Yuuri freezes for a moment because Victor is—

Victor is kissing him.

Victor is  _ kissing him _ .

“Yuuri?”

And,  _ oh _ , Victor has pulled away and now there’s doubt creeping into his expression that Yuuri has no other choice but to kiss away. So he grabs Victor’s lapels, pulls him back down so abruptly that Yuuri loses his balance and falls flat on his back, onto the ice.

But it’s alright, it’s  _ alright _ , because he brings Victor down with him, manages to close the distance enough that Yuuri only has to tug slightly at Victor until they’re kissing once again. This time, though, Yuuri doesn’t freeze. This time, Yuuri kisses Victor, lets him know,  _ I’m here, I’m sorry, I’ll always be here. _

Their kiss is overwhelming, all-consuming, makes him feel like his whole body is on fire, like he could melt the ice beneath him and take on the icy water underneath as long as his lips are on Victor’s, as long as his hand is on Victor’s chest, right where his heart should be. 

When they finally pull away from each other, Yuuri’s still dizzy with it. His thoughts swirl in his head, and the first one he catches is, “You kissed me.”

He’s breathless, panting, but he must get his point across because Victor laughs, leans in for another peck before replying, “We’re on a date, after all.”

Yuuri can’t help the way he flails, the way his voice rises to a squeak when he says, “We’re on a  _ date?” _

Victor’s eyebrows knit.

“What do you mean?” he says. “Didn’t you know?”

Victor never really said this was a date, never even told Yuuri where they were going at all. It’s just like last time—

Oh.

Like last time, when Victor asked Yuuri to go to the museum with him. Like last time, when Victor held his hand for a  _ really _ long time.

_ Oh _ .

Victor starts to get up, but Yuuri pulls him back down before he can roll off of Yuuri.

“I didn’t know,” Yuuri admits. “I didn’t know but if I did, I would have said yes too.”

“So you do like me?” Victor says, and his eyes are so wide, his lips so red from kissing Yuuri just moments ago that it makes Yuuri want to kiss him again.

So he does, just a short brush of the lips, just enough to help Victor understand.

Still, Yuuri says, “I do. I like you so much.”

Victor’s smile is dazzling, brighter than the sky, brighter than the winter sun even.

“I like you so much too, Yuuri.”

They don’t get up until someone nearly topples over them. Even then, Yuuri feels like it’s too soon.

  
  


Victor doesn’t quite ask Yuuri to move into his apartment. Instead, every night, when they’re wrapped up in each other on the couch or on their bed or in the tub, Victor asks Yuuri to stay. Every night, Yuuri accepts, and every night, another set of Yuuri’s clothes migrates to Victor’s apartment until there’s nothing at all left in Yuuri’s closet back in his apartment.

By the time Victor’s birthday rolls around, Yuuri’s has his own set of toiletries in the bathroom, his own mug placed next to Victor’s on the kitchen cabinet, his own section of the closet that Victor expanded little by little until Yuuri had nothing more to add.

But Yuuri and his belongings aren’t the only additions to Victor’s apartment, because for Victor’s birthday, Yuuri gets him a poodle. His fur is black, groomed into a teddy-bear cut the way Vicchan and Makkachin were. 

Victor names him Yurka. 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [twitter](http://twitter.com/singeiji) or [tumblr](http://singeiji.tumblr.com)!!


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